


The Nasty Shock

by MelinaLove



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Accidental wetting, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Omorashi, Platonic Cuddling, Spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22211086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelinaLove/pseuds/MelinaLove
Summary: Something scares Freddie, and he has an accident on the couch.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	The Nasty Shock

**Author's Note:**

> Freddie omorashi for Just A Musical Prostitute My Dear, who wanted Freddie to wet on the couch.
> 
> Requests are open, Freddie only! 😁

Freddie’s almost in Roger’s lap, because the couch isn’t really big enough for all of them. Almost, but not quite. He’s snuggled right up to Roger, who’s warm and soft and has an arm round him... It feels incredibly good, safer than he’s used to feeling, by a long chalk. 

Brian’s reading again, antisocial old bugger. But everyone else is watching TV, after a friendly struggle over which channel to put on.

John won. He usually does... Freddie gives in easily, and Roger gets bored. 

Freddie likes the comfort, the closeness, on the rare days they aren’t on the road and have a little time to recuperate. His throat is sore and he’s been sucking a medicated sweet for it, sensible and obedient, but he doesn’t like them. 

Now he’s sucked it almost to nothing and he crunches up the last bit. 

Roger’s petting his head a little bit. He’ll have to get up soon because he does need a pee, and he’s not going to risk an accident, but it’s not to that point yet, and he’s tired - so tired, almost like he could drop off. 

The American TV chatters brightly, and John asks Roger which presenter he’d take out. 

No one ever asks him that kind of question. They never have, even from the earliest days. He feels his cheeks heat up.

Brian, he sees, glancing to his left, has lowered the book and is looking up, looking at him. Sympathetic. As if he knows what Freddie is thinking. 

That’s a really scary thought - he doesn’t want anyone to know, at least not to know he can’t even want a woman for a minute, in the abstract. He’s that abnormal. 

He bites his lip and looks away, looks up at the ceiling...

Something touches his foot, and it feels - weird, bad, creepy. In an instant he’s looking down, down at the floor, and he can’t stop himself, he screams, a high unmanly shriek. 

SPIDER.

It’s really big. It touched him. And it’s there, still there, it’s on the floor - he’s crying already, he’s pulled his leg up and he’s balled on the sofa, the first sob coming out, the second, before he can possibly stop them, and John and Brian have both leapt to their feet. Roger can’t get up because Freddie’s clinging to him so tightly. 

The pee starts coming out. There’s no time, nothing he can do, no warning. He’s so afraid, so shocked, that his underwear is flooded with heat and wet before he can even try to move, and then as he clings to Roger, as he sobs, his jeans are getting wet, and it’s pouring through the denim onto the couch cushion. 

“Freddie,” Roger’s saying, “Oh god - Freddie, it’s okay - hey - John’s got it, he’s got it - you don’t have to look, but Brian’s opened the window, they’re putting it out...” 

There’s no time to wonder if Roger knows that he’s having an accident, if he’s ignoring it - Brian’s back now, and he says, “Freddie, it’s gone, love, don’t worry...” 

“Um,” Roger says, “Freddie - he - ”

Freddie has his eyes shut now although tears are still streaming out from under the lowered lids. He can’t bear to look, to see what he’s done. What he’s doing. Roger knows. He knows Roger knows.

“Okay,” Brian’s saying. His tone has changed, become suddenly even more sympathetic, more sorry for Freddie.

Babyish Freddie, Freddie thinks. Freddie who has wet himself all over a hotel couch. Freddie who can’t cope with a fucking spider. 

“Freddie?” Brian. Careful. 

But he can’t stop the tears, or the pee that’s coming out, and he sobs hard, helplessly. 

“Hey, Freddie...” Roger’s still sitting there, next to him, even though he’s so gross, peeing on the couch... “Freddie, it’s okay, come on - let’s go in the bathroom -” 

He can’t open his eyes. He can’t look, can’t admit what’s happened, what he’s done. But he lets Roger and Brian pull him up and walk him quickly into the bathroom. They can do what they want. If he’s in trouble he deserves it...

The sound of the shower turning on. The rush of water is loud even over his tears.

“Just going to get your jeans down...” 

Roger. It’s Roger, undoing his jeans and pushing him to sit down on the toilet, even though he still has knickers on. Freddie plucks at them, scared, fear making his throat tight. This is a bad thing to do. His bladder is nearly empty, it’s all happened so fast, but this... He can’t do this.

“It’s alright, just finish through them.” 

Roger’s hand on his shoulder. Roger’s right there with him, by the toilet, not gone out of the room...

Freddie risks opening his eyes, and everything is blurry because of the tears, but of course he can see Roger’s wavy shape all the same. 

“R-Roger,” he stutters, “I - I’m sorry - I never m-meant...”

“I know that.” 

Roger’s rubbing his back a little now, and Brian’s here too, crouching, gently pulling Freddie’s wet jeans down all the way to his ankles and slipping them off, while he still sits on the toilet... 

He’s almost finished. The last bit of pee is coming out. 

“I’ve called reception.” 

John’s voice from the doorway, and Freddie sobs again, hard. 

It’s worse for John to see him like this. The youngest. He ought to be taking care of him. 

“Freddie, it’s alright,” John is saying. “Housekeeping’s coming. I’ve poured some water on it.” 

But he can’t stop crying. He’s finished peeing now but the tears won’t stop. 

“Let’s get you in the shower.” 

Roger stands him up off the toilet and reaches down to flush it. 

“Can you get your knickers off, Freddie?” 

Brian, who’s balling up the wet jeans. Freddie fumbles for the waistband but his hand is shaking. 

“I’ll help you,” Roger says. “Here ...”

He lowers Freddie’s knickers so he can step out, steadies him so he doesn’t fall. They’re dripping wet. 

It’s almost the worst, most embarrassing thing - literally dripping onto the bathroom floor, and Brian takes them and wrings them out into the toilet. 

“Shower,” Roger says, leading him to it, helping him in and pulling the curtain. “Get cleaned up. I’m right here...” 

He cries all through the shower, even though that makes him more of a baby, more pathetic still. When he’s clean, he turns it off and gets out, sniffling, and Roger’s waiting with a towel to wrap around him, and some clean clothes Brian has hastily brought. 

But Freddie shivers all the way through getting dressed, and when Roger leads him out into the sitting room again, holding his hand, he can’t even stand to look at the couch, which is missing two cushions. 

John and Brian are setting up for a game of Trivial Pursuit, at the small coffee table. They’re sitting on the floor, as if it’s a choice - as if the couch wasn’t unusable because of Freddie. 

No one says anything about his accident - it’s hardly the first time, although it’s happened a lot more with Roger than with the others. And with Brian sometimes, mostly at night when they’re sharing a room. 

He loses the game spectacularly, since more than half his mind is focused on not starting to cry again, but at least... at least he’s kept his underwear dry. At least he hasn’t ruined another attempt to relax. 

When the game’s over, he steels himself and says, without meeting anyone’s eyes, “I ... Sorry I - I didn’t mean to w-wet myself... I’m sorry.” His voice goes all shaky and childish, but he feels like he owes them about a thousand apologies, the least he can do is say it out loud once. 

“Freddie,” Brian says, sounding almost surprised. “Oh, Freddie - everyone knows it was an accident. You couldn’t help it.” 

His eyes fill up with tears again. They’re being much nicer than he deserves, and he swallows, because it would be so easy to start properly crying again. 

“Here...” Roger. It’s Roger, he’s moved up to be right next to him, and he’s pulling Freddie in close for a hug. “It’s okay. Really.” 

It isn’t okay to pee in his jeans, to wet the couch like that. But he’s grateful anyway, that they’re pretending like this, being kind about it, not making fun of him. It never used to be like this, and he still expects teasing. 

It’s a surprise when they react like this, when he’s such a baby, so stupid, and they keep on forgiving him.


End file.
